THE RETURN, SAT 27AUG2011 MOR

Crew: Rick and friends, Klaude, Christina, Francis, Cheryl, Dave, and late appearances by DK, Khang, and Dais.
Time: 0630-0930, 3 hrs.
Conditions: 2-3 ft., glassy, sunny, hot.



Dry Walker:


    I’ve been injured for two weeks. I used to wake up around five in the morning. After the slap of the snooze button, the naked stumble in the dark to take a piss, walking back to turn off my buzzing alarm, and gathering my gear, I’d be off for a surf session. There’s nothing like it, starting the day in the water. Instead I’ve been sleeping in. What’s a surf bum to do? For the first couple days during the first week, I’d eat a bowl of cereal and sit in front of the TV with bed-head in my tattered boxers. I created lists of errands to keep myself busy. I even drove to Vegas with my little cousin to visit my mom whom I haven’t seen in months. Still, I had another week to get through. I didn’t bother with the surf report; it bummed me out to see what was happening in the water. My friends were there, letting me know how much fun they were having. The beach . . . I didn’t even want to see it. During my last week I resorted to gaming for long hours. The Billabong Pro Tahiti was on, so that occupied my time as well. For two solid weeks I let my shoulder recover. This Saturday’s the day. On Friday night I repacked my gear; everything was staged by the door. Finally, I could be human again.



Easy Does it:

    I had the hardest time sleeping last night. It’s exactly 0500, and as tired as I am I don’t even hesitate to start my naked walk. I peel my ass cheeks apart since they’ve fused together during the warm night. This morning’s special. I still eat a small bowl of cereal for fuel. I send out the bat signal to the DRC; I’m on the road. It’s 0545, and I score a parking spot right by the 26th St. lifeguard station. Not a leaf is in motion; the wind is calm. Francis and Rick text me that they’re on their way. There still isn’t a hint of light as I saddle up on a bench next to the pull-up bars. I can’t see what the ocean’s doing, but it looks small. It doesn’t matter. You’d expect a moment of spiritual enlightenment where a tear rolls down my face and I become overwhelmed with emotion. Instead, my keys keep falling out of my flimsy house shorts’ pocket, and the wood from the bench feels hard on my ass. 

     Back at the car, Francis pulls up and scores the last free spot. By then, people start filling up the metered parking, and black suits with long logs start filtering through the bottle-neck walkways to the sand. When we get to the beach, I tell Francis to go for it. He leaves while I take my time. I warm up for a solid ten minutes, which unfortunately is a rarity, but I’m fresh off an injury, and I need to take care of myself as much as possible. Jimmy, Dave, and Rick are out there warming up as well, but they take a preemptive measure to avoid the oncoming crowds by going towards 30th St.


   
Submersion:


    The water’s not too cool, but I’m glad I have a wetsuit. As I lie on my board and wonder about my right arm’s range of motion. I paddle, and it’s letting me move, but it’s like working with a fine piece of China that can be cracked and ruined by one small mishap. The board feels different; it’s my JS. I feel like it’s sinking more than before. I duckdive a wave, and the board feels like some kind of buoyant water toy, a new sensation. Francis has already picked off a couple waves, but I try to be patient and wait for one with shape. I finally go for a left that closes out. It still counts I guess. I can still paddle and pop up, so it’s progress for the morning.

    By the tower I can see Klaude and Christina. The sun’s cleared the Manhattan hills, the sky’s bare naked, and it’s warming up. Also, more and more people start to show. Despite the thickening crowd, a peaky left rolls my way without any takers. It’s fast, and as I pop up some of the locals are watching in envy that they’re not on it. Well, it’s too bad that I have center stage because my nose purls while I’m pumping on the face. I have speed, so I indo, get hurled forward, and plunge into the shoulder. I hear a random “Wooooh!” for my wipeout. I spend the next ten minutes cursing myself for losing such a good ride.

    Cheryl and Dave emerge from the growing throng of surfers. We have presence with our crew. I’m getting waves, we all are, but I’m not getting any real turns in; I’m rusty. At the two hour mark my shoulder starts to hurt. There’s something in my paddle, like there’s a notch in my rotator cup, and every time I go over it it’s causing discomfort. My paddle widens out to change the motion a little. I should get out now, I think to myself. But it’s such a perfect day, and I don’t surf for only two hours. Who surfs for only two hours?

    We’re almost at the three hour mark, and Khang, Dais, and DK show up. I catch two more waves and say my goodbyes to them. At this point I’m in pain. We all part ways, and I’m grateful that so many people came out for this end of summer sesh. Back to what I was saying earlier: “Who only surfs for two hours?” Instead, who only surfs for two hours with a bad shoulder? I know who . . . a fucking idiot. It hurts again to reach over with my right arm to turn the steering wheel. Yeah, three hours was definitely too much. I stretch as soon as I get home. It’s not a total relapse, but it’s too much strain too soon. I need to learn to pace myself. Despite the day’s pain, sitting on my couch again, I’ve retained that feeling that I’ve missed so much. I could sit enveloped by these cushions for hours. I’m hungry, but I’m too tired to get up. I’m . . . surfed the fuck out. I can do jack shit for the rest of the day if I want; it doesn’t matter because I got my surf in for the morning. I’ve missed it, the water, the ritual, everything. I’m wet again.